


Praying men

by hillbillied



Series: Donald Malarkey never went to mass [10]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Angst, Bad Decisions, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss of Faith, Multi, Other, set between The Last Patrol and Why We Fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 00:10:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6493303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hillbillied/pseuds/hillbillied
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perconte wishes the replacements knew when to just <i>shut the fuck up.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Praying men

**Author's Note:**

> it's been a while, but if you're still reading this, you have my undying gratitude! sorry for a slow update!

Haguenau is a dark place.

It is supposed to be a reprieve, a moment of peace. Relative safety where they can finally rest their weary feet. To stay in a real house, under a real roof. What a Heaven that would be.

Instead, it is only a somewhat less dirty town, with somewhat less damaged buildings. The snow has still turned to brown slush and the artillery shells still fall. It is no Heaven.

It is just another part of their Hell.

 

 

 

Germany is the same, as the months pass and they finally enter the wretched country. Each town is just more rubble, more broken glass. Their Hell extends forever, it seems.

Not that many of them believe in such a word. Not anymore. It comes as no surprise that the numbers of the faithful have been somewhat dwindling since they left Bastogne. Attending regular masses is for the select few now, even if every other soldier still wears a rosary.

War will do that to a man. They say that it can't take away your spirit, your beliefs. Your morals, your sheer power of will. _Your faith_.

It can.

Oh, _it can_.

And it will. There is nothing war cannot take away, least of all a man's life. It can take everything, chew you up, and spit you back out without compassion. Without remorse. It is a force unto its own and there is nothing that cannot break beneath its weight.

But that description is too many words. And too depressing an idea. Frank prefers to stick with the humbler " _War is Hell_ " malarkey. Short and sweet - kinda like Luz.

"But if war is Hell, Frank, then what's the _real_ Hell like?"

Speaking of Luz, the man is playing Devil's advocate again. A title that has only just started to fit the small soldier, his frame enlarged by the heavy jacket he wears and the exhausted shadows beneath his eyes. _At least they're no longer swamped by woollen coats or an everlasting rain of snowflakes_ , Frank thinks, looking around the company, the group of men taking shelter under the straining wall of one of Germany's many crippled towns.

Another pit-stop as they advance onwards. All the way to Berlin if they have to, one step at a time.

"Probably jus' like this." Perconte huffs, kicking at the loose bricks with his boots, "Only more fire 'n brimstone. Like, er- Bastogne. But _hot_."

" _Hot_?" The radioman laughs, though it comes out as more of a cough. He shields it with his fist, the rest of his weight propped tiredly against the brickwork. "That's really all you got?"

" _Hey_ , I dunno what Hell's like, George - I don' plan on visitin'!" Frank's tone resorts back to its usual defensive nature, even in the bleak conditions that envelope them. It's a welcoming sound to Luz, a little bit of Toccoa still present in Easy's ranks. He hopes it never changes.

Perconte sneaks a glance across the street, over the tire tracks and parked troop trucks. Through the dust and moving bodies he can see Malarkey, scrutinizing a scrap of paper. Working out where they were going, just like he'd said. And the platoon had listened, much to Frank's surprise, as the entire body of men all swiftly spread out along the wall.

Just like their Sergeant had told them.

It could almost be peaceful.

 

 

 

A poorly hidden whisper and a shift in the dirt is what starts it. A crunch and a mutter between anonymous soldiers that leaves the Perconte wishing he'd ignored it, avoided the whole landslide to follow. The chain of events that left him hating replacements just a little more intensely than he had before.

" _What?_ "

The word is spat over Luz's shoulder, who turns sluggishly in response, glancing at the objects of his friend's aggression. The fresh-faced replacements stand up a little straighter under their gazes, stiffening in their boots and drawing in sharp breaths. It's almost _funny_ , if any of the company were in the mood for funny.

"What you mutterin' about?" Frank tries again, a little more direct this time.

In the corner of his vision, he can see George shake his head, tell him to _leave it._ That it's not worth their time.

It probably isn't, but the advice goes unheeded.

"Y'shouldn't joke about Hell." One of the replacements begins, the words disjointed and shaky as he tries to find his footing, "When you can't know for sure you ain't headin' that way."

It's an innocent enough statement. Something that might have come off as protective between more friendly a pair.

" _Huh_." Perconte huffs. A bull flaring its nostrils, standing up to a challenge. He doesn't need to be preached to by a child, not after what they've seen. "And what makes you the fuckin' expert, kid?"

The replacement yet to speak looks to his friend for a response, eyes darting between the two men staring fiercely at each other. He's the more timid of the two, Frank knows from his silence alone. Poor kid won't last a day here, not with that expectant expression and unsteady footing.

Instead of giving an answer, the more vocal of the pair simply reaches into the depths of his jacket. Fishes out a chain, the dull silver catching the light as it draws out the crucifix tucked beneath his shirt. He dangles it from his fingers, making sure Perconte gets a good view.

"I'm a prayin' man."

 The confidence alone in the replacement's words makes Perconte's blood boil. Luz is still watching him, staring into his head with a frown over his brown eyes. They both know what's in there, what his mind wishes he could say.

All the things they'd love to let tumble from their mouths, the tirade they all secretly wished they could start. A speech to the ignorant children who still think that God and God alone could protect their sorry asses out here. A lesson in burnt foxholes and bloody bandages, describing all the grotesque and gory details of what can happen to people who have even the most perfect faith in the almighty.

Frank glances at George, meeting his gaze for barely a second.

He holds his tongue.

"Congratulations." The Italian snorts, turning his back to the wall and his eyes away from the offending pair, "You an' every other guy here."

Shoulder blades against the brick, watching as Liebgott hounds at Malarkey's heels for information on where they're going, Perconte can feel Luz smile at him. A cold and weary grin, but an amused one all the same. Another flicker of Toccoa still alight in the dim.

"Don't see a rosary on you." The mouthy replacement continues.

Before Frank can react, George rolls his eyes and turns to face the pair. It holds the Italian's rage for a moment, letting it simmer as he waits for what the company comic might say.

" _Hey_. Zip it, buddy." It's a concise and simple request, driven home by the exhausted expression that adorns Luz's face as he speaks, "Just because he doesn't flash it at everyone he meets doesn't mean it ain't there, alright?"

There's a victorious silence between the four, with the first replacement struggling to come up with a solid rebuttal. He fails in his quest, and it leaves George to smile, nod, and turn away after offering a brief _'Thanks'_ for obeying his order.

Frank's never been more grateful to have the comedian in his corner.

The company shifts its attention to Malarkey as he approaches, ushering the group further up the street. Perconte is all too happy to follow, straightening up and shaking the heaviness from his feet. He just wants to get under some shelter, supposes they all do.

"Alright, with me!"

The platoon begins to slowly file further into the town, guided by the motions of Don's hand and the footfalls of the man in front of them. It's a sluggish operation, giving Perconte and Luz enough time to exchange a nod and a half-smile with the sergeant as he shepherds them along.

Enough time for the replacements to get a full view of Malark as they pass by, their eyes scanning over the leader they've known not even a month. Searching, looking for anything that might give them a reason to trust the man who was supposed to know so much more than they.

Frank turns his back on the pair without thinking about it. He barely hears the timid one speak, muttering to his mouthy comrade.

" _I didn't peg Sergeant Malarkey as a praying man._ "

The quiet statement grinds the rear of the column to a halt, with Luz and Perconte exchanging horrified glances before spinning on their heels. They're too late, unable to shove the words back into the replacements mouth. They can only watch helplessly as Don's hand freezes in its waving, feet no longer crunching along beside the platoon.

It's terrible to watch how the man's head turns, how his eyes fix on the wide-eyed replacements, so blissfully unaware of what they say. But even their smiles falter as they watch Malark blink, gaze moving briefly downwards to find the focus of their words. To the beaded rosary hanging grimly from his pocket.

In the tense silence, Luz and Perconte hold their breaths, eyes locked on their friend as his fingers move to brush the chipped crucifix at his chest.

The quiet drags painfully onwards.

Hand falling back to his side, Don lets out a snort. A tiny huff of laughter to accompany the twisted little smile that coils around his features, and leaves Frank and George's hearts in their throats.

Without a word, Malark turns his eyes from the terrified replacement. He focuses on the road instead, continuing on after the rest of the company. As if nothing had happened.

And as the replacements breathe sighs of relief and return to their muttering, Luz and Perconte can only stare brokenly in the direction their friend had taken. Though they both remain silent, fearing what words might do, they both know what the other is thinking. They feel it, don't need to say it aloud.

Because that had both seen it.

How, if only for a moment, _Malarkey_ had looked a lot like _Ronald Speirs_.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, comments appreciated


End file.
